


A Six Suitcase Problem

by Bitenomnom



Series: For the Following [Length of Time] [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Concussions, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Scuba Diving, working while on holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft went to the Mariana Trench, he wasn’t expecting to find Lestrade. He was expecting even less for the following seven hours to be so blithe.  If only Lestrade hadn’t convulsed so dauntingly—but he did. <i>Oh sod off.</i></p><p>Written for LucianaJellyfish based on the (above) fill of a mad lib I wrote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Six Suitcase Problem

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I wasn't able to cover all the aspects of the prompt in this story...it kind of ran away, but by the time I realized it, it was too late. @_@ (I also didn't want to rewrite it...) I hope you still like it, LucianaJellyfish! I was hoping for it to get more Mystradey more quickly, but, well. And unfortunately I haven't got the time right now to go into too much detail about what Greg might or might not be suggesting at the end. XD This turned out a lot longer than I thought it would.
> 
> Sorry again for not quiiiite managing to fit in everything from the mad lib. (I was thinking, blithe isn't exactly correct but maybe compared to Mycroft's usual, and the...well, and the 'oh sod off' was tough, especially since the summary is Mycroft's POV...but...sigh.) Ah well. As I said, I hope you still like it! I am not well-practiced with Mystrade; hopefully I didn't flub either of these two up too badly, let alone their developing relationship.

            “Well, _that_ was far more tedious than necessary,” Mycroft frowned, looking behind him to Anthea as he disembarked from the boat, opening his mouth to continue.

            Or at least, he would’ve done, except that as he stepped off, someone collided with him.

            “Sorry,” said the man.

            Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Detective Inspector.”

            “Oh, bloody hell,” the man squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

           

 

 

            Greg Lestrade gawped. Well. He really tried not to. This, of course, was the familiar voice of the man who claimed to be Sherlock’s brother but hadn’t even bothered showing up at the funeral because, as John had said afterward, in the three seconds of his time he gave Greg before slumping off in a rolling storm of grief and rage, “he’d had quite enough at the private family viewing.”

            “Listen, you sod,” Greg had phoned him, because Greg had his phone number, because Mycroft did things like encourage Greg to take vacations where Sherlock happened to be. Greg had never actually met him, partly out of a general wariness to meet anyone who John, the most patient man in the world, couldn’t stand, and partly because, well, he’d never asked. But they _had_ spoken. “He was your _brother_.”

            “I am aware of this,” Mycroft had said, “and am grieving appropriately.”

            Greg hadn’t particularly had any intelligible words with which to continue the discussion, so he’d simply hung up. It’d been several months since that day, and they’d not exchanged another word since.

            “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said, when Mycroft—it _had_ to be him—stepped off a boat and into Greg. Greg stared. He shut his mouth. He frowned. He remembered where he was and took a couple steps away to put a more reasonable distance between them. So _this_ was what he looked like, the man who seemed to have moved past his brother’s death quicker than anyone with any semblance of a heart ought to.

            “I would inquire as to your business here, but it would appear quite markedly from your attire that you are on holiday.”

            _Yeah, one you didn’t order me on,_ thought Greg, and then he thought that really Mycroft didn’t _order_ him on anything; he didn’t have _that_ kind of power; he only made suggestions that Greg happened to follow, by and large.

            Or all the time.

            Whatever.

            Greg straightened his shoulders a bit, temporarily proud that Mycroft had gotten something wrong. He wasn’t on holiday, per se, so much as strongly encouraged to not show up at work for a couple weeks after a particularly nasty tiff with his boss about the meaning of the conversation found recorded on the mobile Sherlock abandoned on the hospital roof.

            He slumped again. _On a forced vacation_ wasn’t much of a victory.

            “Ah,” Mycroft simply said. “I see.”

            “And what are you doing here, exactly?” Greg challenged. “Last I knew the Mariana Islands weren’t under the jurisdiction of the British government, and last I knew you don’t do holidays.” Or, he thought, a day off for a funeral. Mycroft’s brow creased; he saw the unspoken words.

            Mycroft seemed to be considering something; he shifted his weight, which, Greg found, fit so unusually with his stance and frame that it was almost endearing. “ _Ladrones_ Islands, The Islands of Thieves _,”_ he said. “The previous name of this place. Naturally, a place where James Moriarty’s rather extensive web would have fallen, given his preference for the…poetic.”

            “You’re here hunting him down,” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Why you? You have people for that. Don’t you?”

            “Not precisely,” Mycroft said, and Greg wasn’t sure to which part of his question Mycroft was responding. He nodded down the path that led away from the dock and toward a shabby inn. The mere thought of this man, with his arching eyebrows and archer words, standing even in the vicinity of the place brought a grin to Greg’s face. He followed as Mycroft started down the path. Mycroft continued, “Of course, there are, in actuality, locations closer to the Earth’s core than the Trench, but as we both know, James preferred the dramatic and obviously would have opted for the whimsy of the deepest area of the ocean, given the choice.”

            “ _Preferred_?” Greg said. “Past tense? All right, what have I missed? Did somebody shoot him down or find his body while I’ve been gone?”

            “Oh, quite some time before that, in fact.”

            Greg rubbed a hand over his face. “Right, sure, nothing that the police should know or anything, though.”

            “Not this time.”

            “Should I bother asking?”

            “No.”

            “Right.” Greg stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Okay. Well, I’m at least gonna ask what all this business is about the Trench.”

            “It’s not in the Trench, per se,” Mycroft paused as they reached the inn, and turned to lead them around to a room door on the other side of the small building. Greg found himself waiting with far too much interest to see Mycroft’s face when he would be forced to touch the handle. Mycroft stopped, looking to Greg.

            Oh.

            Greg felt heat rising to his face.

            This was his room.

            Right.

            He pulled out his key and opened the door. Presumptuous git. Still, it was hardly any worse than the five or ten times Sherlock had seen fit to break into Greg’s flat. At least Mycroft had theoretically given Greg the option to laugh in his face and tell him he’ll talk about in Mycroft’s own bloody room, thanks.

            Greg shut the door behind them and then sighed when he turned around, staring at the ceiling, gathering patience.

            Sometime while he’d been out on his rather excellent meander through the jungle and sand, someone had brought in about six posh suitcases that definitely weren’t his and left them beside the room’s single table. Greg didn’t have to be a Detective Inspector to figure out whose they were.

            “Hope you’re not staying for long,” Greg said dryly, because who the hell needed six suitcases for anything?

            “With any luck, a day or so.”

            “What’s all this, then?”

            Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I only advise that you not open it.”

            “Yeah, the locks on the handles were a bit of a clue.”

            “Then why did you ask?”

            “Because that’s a lot of luggage for a day, that’s why.”

            “Equipment,” was all Mycroft said.

            “Oh, right then, some kind of secret shite that you wouldn’t trust anyone else with, or something, and that’s why you’ve drug your arse all the way out here rather than having somebody else do it for you.”

            “Something like that.”

            “And you can’t get your own bloody room because…” Greg started, and then waited for Mycroft to fill in the blank.

            Mycroft crouched down and unlocked one of the cases. Greg found that his eyes were stuck on the faint creases on Mycroft’s trousers where his knees bent. Mycroft looked like he wasn’t used to such…tedium, maybe, as bending down to unlock a suitcase. His trousers also didn’t look quite used to it, like wrinkling was just as unnatural and distasteful to them as crouching was to Mycroft.

            “Naturally, my assistant will have gotten a room of her own,” Mycroft said instead, straightening back up as he flipped the lid of the case open. “Please take care to refer to her as Daphne.”

            “As opposed to…”

            “Your travel here was quite fortunately timed.”

            “Okay, I…”

            “Trouble with your superiors, was it?”

            Greg felt his blood and then his skin grow hot. “I feel like,” he said, through teeth that he didn’t realize had been gritted so tightly, “you know a little too much for this to be...”

            “I know precisely the amount I need to, rather,” Mycroft pushed the case toward Greg. “I had not intended to disrupt your vacation, but sometimes it is necessary to employ a backup plan. That’s why they exist, after all.”

            “Right, putting your suitcases in my hotel room was your backup plan. God, but I shouldn’t be surprised that the inner workings of the government continue to confuse me.” Greg looked down at the case. “…Such as, of course, and scuba diving sponsored by the Queen,” he said, shifting its contents with his bare toes.

            “I hazarded a guess at your size.”

            “You hazarded a guess,” Greg repeated in disbelief. For Mycroft, he supposed, “hazarding a guess” was probably a colloquialism for “had someone investigate your closet and convey the relevant data to the gear manufacturers.”

            “As I was saying prior to the entire rather unnecessary fuss about the location of my belongings—in response to a question _you_ asked, in fact—James Moriarty left something in the vicinity of the Mariana Trench. It’s necessary we find it.”

            “We?”

            “Yes, we. Unfortunately I must go to rather more trouble than I’d prefer.”

            “Oy, you sod, are you telling me you were gonna make me run your errand for you?”

            “Except for that it’s rather inadvisable to dive alone in these conditions, yes. Further, some assistance may be required in retrieving the item we’re searching for.”

            Greg lifted the skintight suit out of the suitcase. “Right. For the sort of chap who, as far as I understand it, is possibly allergic to things like sunlight and light jogging, you seem a little too keen on this whole ‘coerce an acquaintance to go on a scuba adventure for the secrets of a bleeding criminal mastermind’ lark.”

            “You got those ideas from Sherlock, did you?” Mycroft opened a different case. “He…exaggerated, a bit, perhaps.”

            “Oh, sure,” Greg said, “But John’s not quite as dramatic as Sherlock was.”

            “Ah. Well,” he shrugged, at which Greg had to stifle a giggle, the unnaturalness of the motion on Mycroft’s figure something like a fawn stumbling over its feet learning to walk. “Consider this an exception, then.”

            Greg looked again at the diving equipment. Well, he’d been meaning to give it another go for a while. For quite a while, actually. Perhaps it wasn’t such an awful idea. “How do you even know I know how?”

            “You learned the basics while on holiday with your university friends approximately twenty-six years ago.”

            “That really doesn’t explain _how_ you know.” Greg said. Mycroft had since fetched his mobile from his suit jacket and started typing something. Greg sighed. “Right.”

 

 

 

            “Okay,” Greg called out over the small boat’s motor. “So what, exactly, are we looking for?” He kept his eyes off of Mycroft, facing away, so he had to raise his voice to an even louder shout. But he couldn’t just turn around; then he’d see Mycroft Holmes in scuba gear and possibly lose it. When Mycroft had stepped out of the sad excuse for a toilet that the rooms at the inn had (and at least they had that, Greg thought), Greg had felt his mouth temporarily dry up. Initially he was fairly certain it was due to his sucking in little breaths of laughter at the sight, until he realized that his eyes hadn’t wandered from Mycroft in the two or three minutes since he’d left the toilet clad in the tight suit, and then Greg thought, well. Maybe it wasn’t _entirely_ laughter.

            And wasn’t that just the stupidest thing, too? Ogling the man who surely succeeded Sherlock’s throne as the Most Unbearable Git in London? In his dress clothes it was bad enough. From here Greg could tell that Mycroft wasn’t quite so disastrously proportioned in the midsection as Sherlock had attempted to imply time and time again. It was nothing of particular note—but then, Greg thought, neither was he, really. Anyway, staring at Mycroft was about the stupidest thing he could do right now. No need to make him think he had quite so much leverage over Greg as this; and anyway, Mycroft was a sodding genius. Greg wasn’t shabby in the brains region, but over time he had confirmed his own personal theory that the primary reason for Sherlock’s snide insults to Mycroft was a bit of jealousy. Whatever kind of a mind it was that Sherlock had had, Mycroft’s was different, and faster, and smarter, Greg fancied.

            He blinked. God knew why he fancied that.  Or why he fancied anything about Mycroft, really. Why would he fancy something about Mycroft?

            Wait, did he fancy Mycroft?

            Oh god, he fancied Mycroft.

            “I am uncertain as to its exact dimensions,” Mycroft answered, and Greg had to jog his mind backwards to remember what he’d asked.

            “Oh, right, so somewhere between a ring box and a gigantic treasure chest,” he rolled his eyes.

            “I sincerely doubt it will be either of those things.”

            “But it will be something box-shaped.”         

            “Most likely.”

            “Brilliant, right. That’s extremely helpful. With intel like that I’m surprised you haven’t found it already.”

            Greg could hear the frown in Mycroft’s voice when he said, “We did an initial sweep of the area several hours ago, to no avail. A visual search is needed.”

            “Right, so, look for something that looks like the sort of thing that Moriarty would’ve put on the ocean floor.” This time, he did turn to Mycroft, and nearly leapt backwards and off the boat to find that under cover of the sound of the chopping motor, Mycroft had moved closer. Well, Greg thought, he probably hadn’t meant to _sneak_ , but it wasn’t exactly tough to do so on accident with this noise. Last Greg had looked, though, he’d been clear on the other side and up front, near Daphne, who was steering and clad in scuba gear herself, in case of emergency.

            Greg’s nostrils flared and were greeted with a deep breath of sun cream. Of course Mycroft had put the bloody stuff on. He was as pale as Sherlock; paler, even. He’d come out resembling a lobster without it, probably.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said, more quietly now that he didn’t have to yell across an entire speedboat of wind and waves.

            “Greg,” Greg said. “Honestly, you’ve already commandeered my vacation to run an errand for you. If you’re gonna fuck me, call me by my first name.” Greg immediately glanced away. _Ah, shit. That was a bit too much, wasn’t it?_

            “Greg,” Mycroft repeated, apparently oblivious but for the short-lived and tiny upward quirk of one side of his lips that had to have been a genetic quality of Holmeses. “I do…apologize. Unfortunately circumstances forbade me from contacting you beforehand to ask.”

            “Ah,” Greg shrugged, showing Mycroft how shrugging was done. “I’ve gotten a bit used to my holidays having a side of hunting down criminals. Bit awkward, going someplace and having an entire bloody week to do whatever I want.”

            “I understand your frustration.”

            Greg found that he was grinning. “Actually, it’s not entirely frustrating. Hell, doing my job when it’s not actually _for_ my job is…” he trailed off. “In fact, I found those couple times you sent me out on Sherlock’s tail to keep an eye on him weren’t all that bad.”

            To his surprise, Mycroft’s expression softened. “I see. I believe I understand. I often feel the same about my own work.”

             “But this is work for you, isn’t it?”

            “Not for my job,” Mycroft admitted.

            Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, okay. Right. Because it involves Moriarty.”

            “Yes.”

            Lately, Greg thought, based on the way Mycroft’s eyes grew tired at the word, little of Mycroft’s work must have been for his job for the government, at least not directly. How long had he been doing this, picking up clues and strings that would lead him to—to whatever he was doing, to breaking down the rings of criminals Moriarty had left behind him? Had he been doing it alone? All this time?

            Maybe that was why he hadn’t gone to Sherlock’s funeral. Maybe he was holed up someplace that very day, calling people, tugging faint and invisible little lines until he heard a squeak and pursued it.

            “Look, mate,” Greg said, as the boat slowed to a crawl over an area on the seemingly endless sea that supposedly held some significance, perhaps mere miles from the deepest part of the ocean on Earth. He laid a tentative hand on Mycroft’s shoulder; Mycroft seemed to swallow down a jump. “I know I got pretty damn wound up about your not going to Sherlock’s funeral, but…well. I s’pose you had a reason.”

            Mycroft looked to Greg and breathed in and out in what Greg could tell were slow and measured breaths. “I appreciate the understanding,” he finally said. “And yes. I did.”

            “Well, let’s find this mysterious box, shall we?”

            “Of course.” Mycroft secured his air tank to his back. “Daphne, please do keep a careful eye on the camera.” He nodded toward the screen in her lap and adjusted the camera on his suit.

            “Have fun,” she said, tapping away at her mobile. Greg rolled his eyes and looked to Mycroft, and then tried not to look too surprised at the hint of a smile in Mycroft’s eyes. Greg nodded to Mycroft, and he nodded back.

            They dove in.

 

 

 

            Greg gestured toward what might or might not have been an interesting ridge toward what he was pretty sure was the east, but Mycroft shook his head, and they continued along their path. From the number of times he’d refused Greg’s suggestions, he must have been fairly certain about this vicinity, and maybe he had a point: there were plenty of groupings of coral and rocks and all other matter of debris, providing a number of hiding spots.

            _Oh,_ Greg thought, catching a glint with his flashlight. He swam his way over. _Yes. There is no way in hell this isn’t it._ An unassuming box, black and nearly impossible to see in the dark of the water, except that it had silvery lining along its edges and on a lock. He guessed it could hold about two reams of printer paper, if it held paper at all. Mycroft hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about its contents; maybe he didn’t know.

            Whatever it was, though, it was deeply wedged into the coral. Greg yanked at it. Underwater, whatever was in it shouldn’t be that heavy, if he could just get it—

            Greg’s next thoughts were more like flashes of garbled sound and color, and the sensation of having breathed in chlorine in his nose and stabbing pain in his neck as it snapped back, as the box slipped out of its spot and, with the force with which Greg had been pulling it, with how close his head had been, thudded against his forehead with tremendous force. He could see the black box drifting in front of him, and reached out for it, but it was too hard to see, too hard to see…and everything faded to black.

 

 

 

            “Get us to the shore _immediately,_ ” Mycroft said, tearing away his mask as he heaved Greg’s unconscious body onto the boat with Anthea’s help, and then, almost as if it were an afterthought, threw a silver-trimmed black box on board as well.

            “Head trauma, sir?” she asked.

            “Yes,” said Mycroft, and he knelt down as Greg’s muscles began seizing. “I believe so.”

            Sherlock surviving his fall, _that_ had been a sure thing.

            Mycroft watch DI—Les—Greg convulse again, laid a hand on his forehead as if that could possibly be of any effect. His fingers rested there tentatively, as if he might have to draw back at any moment. Mycroft shifted uneasily. This, seeing people in pain—well, seeing people who he really didn’t terribly dislike in pain—was not his…area of expertise. He’d have just as soon closed his eyes and ignored it, but for the desire to monitor Greg to help ensure his survival.

            Because Greg’s surviving this was a bit less of a sure thing.

            He would probably be okay—it was only a hit in the head, if a sharp one. Still, best to get him to someplace where care would be more readily available if…if these _seizures_ didn’t stop soon.

            And what? What if he didn’t make it? Mycroft ought not care so much, oughtn’t he? He’d only properly introduced himself to the man several hours ago, despite their rather extensive previous contact, ever since Sherlock started working with the Yard and Mycroft hoped to find someone who could…facilitate things happening smoothly; who could ensure that in Sherlock’s dashing off to the countryside to investigate impossible gunshots or gruesome death-shacks Sherlock didn’t get himself into more trouble than was strictly necessary, particularly with the local authorities.

            John Watson had done a reasonably good job of filling that role, of course, most of the time, with the exception of when he had actually _assisted_ Sherlock in infiltrating a top-secret military base.

            Having to help Sherlock now, Mycroft found, was much like any other family event. At first, for Mycroft at least, being in regular contact with his brother had been novel, something he’d not experienced since perhaps his adolescence. But soon enough, he remembered why, exactly, he generally simply resorted to well-placed cameras. How John managed to live with the man was a question which tested the limits of Mycroft’s desire for knowledge.

            But happening across Greg here, of all places—Mycroft had really only meant to get him away from the Yard for several weeks—it had been—good, Mycroft supposed. Greg seemed to have come to his senses and realized that Mycroft wasted not a day in his work, and was rather…pleasant, to know he was able to accept it. It had been a bit of a leap, Mycroft supposed, having his things put in Greg’s room; but it was much more convenient than his original plan. This way, there was no need for manufactured identification beyond Anthea’s, and no need for Mycroft to share a room with her, though of course the hotel staff needn’t know that wasn’t precisely what he was doing.

            And Greg, Greg hadn’t kicked him out, hadn’t made him move his things. Perhaps he hadn’t thought quite so far ahead, through the seven or eight-odd hours between Mycroft’s arrival and the time when at least one of them would likely be going to sleep.

            But if Greg didn’t make it, after having lifted this portion of the weight off of Mycroft’s shoulders, after having proven himself agreeable and steady and understanding company—well. It would be, Mycroft, supposed, back to work.

            He felt—feeling, as if that were a thing Mycroft _did_ —as if he’d known Greg for much longer than these past few hours. He had, really; they hadn’t spoken much, or frequently, but they had been in contact for some time. It was, Mycroft supposed, one of his longest-sustained relationships with someone, at least of those not borne of absolute necessity.

            And here he was, having convulsions on the floor of the speedboat, just as Mycroft had been beginning to wonder if this trip wouldn’t be so awful after all. They’d found the box, even; but it was laid off to the side now.

            “Is he doing all right, sir?” Anthea asked. “We’re halfway to shore.”

            “I believe so,” said Mycroft.

            He had no idea.

            He found his fist was clenched against the skintight fabric of Greg’s suit; he thought to unzip it, to help him breathe more readily.

            “Check his heart rate,” Anthea recommended from the helm.

            Mycroft nodded, pressing his forefinger and middle finger up beneath Greg’s jaw and counting. It should have been an easy enough task, requiring only a basic level of focus, but Mycroft found his mind flying systematically through every possible conclusion of this scenario between heartbeats.

            Mostly, he wanted Greg Lestrade to be around when Sherlock came back, to continue to keep an eye on him.

            Mostly, he wanted Greg Lestrade to continue being his own easy in, should he need it, to Scotland Yard.

            No. No, those were both very important things. But right now, mostly, he wanted to see Greg’s eyes light up when he found out the truth, about what Mycroft had been doing, about Sherlock; mostly, he wanted to baffle Greg again, to watch his mouth open and shut like fish’s out of water. Mostly, he wanted to know that he could, for one single day, perhaps, not worry about whether or not someone was dying and maybe he could stand around slicked up in horrid sunscreen on a damned island and talk to an average human for once—a good one, one who wasn’t planning seventeen different dull but nonetheless pressing ways to stab Mycroft behind his back. Or, one who wasn’t Sherlock, or any of the endless ‘intellectuals’ he stumbled across; one who didn’t scratch up endlessly at the cliff walls under the delusion that they could reach his level of intellect, but sat comfortably the next tier down.

            Mostly, Mycroft wanted Greg Lestrade to wake up so that he would have more time to think about what, exactly, he wanted from Greg Lestrade.

            “It is of utmost importance that you wake up,” Mycroft told Greg, giving up on the heart rate.

            And finally, ten minutes later as they approached the shore, he did.

 

 

 

            “Good god,” Greg said, when he sat up, some minutes after waking and blinking listlessly at the sky above him. Or Mycroft’s nose, he was possibly blinking at Mycroft’s nose; that was above him, too. “Hope whatever’s in the box is worth the bloody headache I’m going to have after _that_.”

            Mycroft strove not to bite his lip. “You were having…spasms, of some sort. I recommend you consult a doctor to ensure there has been no permanent damage.”

            “Needed an excuse to check up on John anyway,” Greg waved a hand dismissively. He wasn’t going to ruin his holiday with a visit to hospital, not when he was feeling reasonably alive at present, that was for damn sure.

            “But you’re feeling…”

            “Like I’ve got the biggest sodding hangover in the world? Roughly, yeah.” Greg rubbed at his forehead, and then decided against the idea, wincing. “Thanks for, uh…”

            “I had to, of course,” Mycroft said.

            “Well,” said Greg, and, “okay,” and, “yeah.” He added, “I guess that’d look pretty bad on your records, wouldn’t it? If I died?”

            “It wouldn’t be on my records,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, picking up the box as Anthea stopped the speedboat and pulled out its key.

            “Of course.”

            Mycroft paused thoughtfully as they climbed off the boat, clutching the box in his arms as if Greg or Daphne could decipher its contents merely by touching it. “Le—Greg, if you have no immediate plans, and are in the state for a bit of a walk, I would ask you to accompany me on one final errand.”

            “Final, eh?”

            “Well. For the time being, in any case. Precluding any further fortuitous coincidences involving your choice of holiday time and place.”

            “That’s what I thought.”

 

 

 

            They walked along a reasonably beaten path for what Greg estimated to be at least a mile before diverting into what by all means appeared to be an unremarkable patch of flora, through ever thicker grasses and trees and up a slope.

            “What the hell are we doing with this box?”

            “You’ll see.”

            Mycroft stopped in an equally unremarkable section of the jungle, in what could roughly be considered a small clearing. “A man almost died for this information,” he said to no one in particular. “I hope it’s of use to you.”

            “Of course it will be of use to me.”

            Greg looked over his shoulder and between his aching head and the tropical heat, almost passed out.

            Or maybe it wasn’t because of either of those things. Maybe it was because he saw a dead man.

            “Sherlock?” he stared, and then remembered to click his mouth shut. “My god, Mycroft, if this is the most detailed, most depressing idea of a _joke_ you can—”

            Sherlock stepped forward and took the box from Mycroft. “He placed something important in here. I believe it involves the key to a number of his contingency plans, which he possibly only recorded to tease me, so we shall have to find out.”

            “How are you…” Greg started. Stared. Shut his mouth. Mycroft smirked, the smug git.

            “Are you sure it’s wise to have involved Lestrade on this matter?”

            “I am certain that with the amount of progress you have made, Greg will not be in danger of being noticed as having realized your rather…marked change in state from his previous impression.”

            “Hm,” Sherlock said, turning the box over, considering the lock. “Disappointing,” he said, pulling out a pick.

            “John, however, remains in danger.”

            “I know,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Greg felt his lips lift into a smile as he deduced that Sherlock’s irritation was not with the lock but with the idea of John being in danger. But—

            “John’s in danger?”

            “As were you. Are, technically,” said Sherlock, and then he waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, you’ll be fine.” He removed his attention from the lock temporarily. “But John cannot know, do you hear me? Even when you see him upon your return.”

            “How did you know I…”

            “Oh, please. Early signs of bruising on the forehead, dizziness, Mycroft’s intrusive hovering into your space? Clearly something has happened to you, something serious: a head injury. But you’re not bothering about it now; not _so_ serious, or you don’t believe it to be. You’ll ask John about it to avoid the formality of a proper appointment, and as you’ve been checking up on him every third week, you’re about due anyway.”

            Greg sighed, shrugged.

            “Please do focus, little brother,” Mycroft prompted.

            Sherlock rolled his eyes and finished picking the lock open. He removed a stack of papers sealed in plastic, and ripped into them, eyes darting wildly. “Oh,” he said, “oh, this is brilliant. Perfect. Oh, Jim, did you need to make it so _obvious_?”

            “Will you be needing any of your things, then?” Mycroft asked.

            “No,” Sherlock shook his head, pulling out the key left taped to the inside of the box and locking the thing again. “No, certainly not, I should think.”

            “I come all this way…” Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I trust you can deal with the rest of this?”

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

            “Best not give him a chance to answer,” Greg suggested, still making half an effort to blink the illusion of an actual living Sherlock standing before them out of his eyes.

            “A fair point.”

            “So he…what, faked being dead so he could do this?”

            “Essentially. As we suspected, James used several people to whom Sherlock is… _attached_ …in an attempt to force his hand, yourself and John included. Your survival was contingent upon his death.”

            “So if one of Moriarty’s men finds out that he’s alive…”

            Mycroft sighed, as if standing in the middle of a jungle just beside the Mariana Trench exchanging secret documents from the world’s largest crime lord with his dead brother and telling a detective from Scotland Yard that less than a year ago he almost, unbeknownst to himself, died, was the most tedious thing he could be doing. “I will ensure your safety, naturally.”

            “Oh, ta,” Greg rolled his eyes. “That’s lovely.”

            “You doubt my ability.”

            “No, that’s not it.”

            “Ah.”

            “Get a room,” Sherlock said, already stalking off with the box in hand. “See you when I’m alive,” he called out, waving and not looking back.

            “Interesting suggestion,” said Greg, turning to Mycroft and narrowing his eyes. “Being as you haven’t got one. Is all your rubbish in my room Sherlock’s?”  
            “Most of it.”

            “Are you still staying the night?”

            “I hardly have a choice.”

            “Getting a room?”

            “I needn’t sleep. I’ve got a lengthy trip in an aeroplane to look forward to tomorrow.”

            “Of course you’ll sleep. You look knackered. Take my bed.”

            “I believe I’ve inserted myself into quite enough of your holiday as-is.”

            Greg shook his head, starting back toward the path. “I really don’t mind. Getting to find out about—” he nodded back in Sherlock’s direction. “Worth it. Christ. Worth the concussion, definitely. Anyway, you know, you’re not half as unbearable as I thought you’d be. Maybe I’d fancy a bit of a chat. If you’re up to it, of course.” He glanced down, as if it might be impolite to watch Mycroft process the request.

            “I frequent the Diogenes Club specifically because talking is forbidden there.”

            “Right.” Greg sighed again, rubbing his fingers into his eyes. “Sorry, I should’ve—”

            “But you aren’t half as self-absorbed as the majority of its population, and so, I suspect, a good deal more interesting to speak with.”

            “Right,” said Greg, wondering if the heat on his face was the tropics or the concussion or an inability to process such a blatant compliment from Mycroft Holmes. “Right.”

            They made their way back onto the main path and started back to the inn in silence.

            “It slipped my mind earlier,” Mycroft said, suddenly, “but I meant to say that I’m quite glad you came out of that…incident…reasonably unharmed.”

            “Me too.” He grinned and prodded gently at his forehead. “Well, it’ll be a nice souvenir, and at least one that won’t take up any space in my rubbish flat.”

            “It’s temporary, correct?”

            “What? Well, Christ, yeah, most bruises are, I’d think, unless you think there was some kind of permanent da—”

            “Your ‘rubbish flat,’” Mycroft cut in. “You’re getting yourself sorted out now that you’ve been back to work a month or two?”

            Greg shrugged. Mycroft’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. Greg tried to leave his bruise be. Mycroft pulled out his mobile and started keying something in. How either he or Daphne could manage to get any sort of signal out here, Greg thought, was a mystery.

            When they got to the inn, Greg unlocked his door for the both of them. “Have you ever been on a proper trip, then? A real holiday?”

            “Perhaps in my youth,” Mycroft considered.

            Greg collapsed onto the single chair the inn provided. “I just mean, I’ve got this room a few more days. Maybe now you’ve got all this mysterious black box business sorted out you could push your plane ticket back and take a proper holiday. Sherlock and England both can go on without you for at least that long.”

            “You’d be surprised.” Mycroft cracked a smirk, and tentatively rested against the edge of the bed, still thumbing in texts or god knew what else. “In any case, what would I do with myself?”

            “Well, what did you enjoy most today? And don’t say my getting conked in the head, if you please.”

            “Our time at sea prior to diving was….agreeable,” Mycroft said. Greg lifted an eyebrow. That Mycroft had used the word ‘agreeable’ was not so surprising as the way in which he said it; not harsh or sharp or anything, just…pleasant, as if he were, at that very moment, wistfully reflecting on that trip. Greg found himself drawn out of the chair and across the room, to perch on the edge of the bed beside Mycroft. “Although I am receptive to other ideas, if you have any suggestions,” Mycroft concluded. Greg was positive the upward twitch of one corner of his lips was intentional.

            “I might make a few,” Greg said. “I just might do.”


End file.
